Heart in Mouth
by VampireFaun
Summary: The heart of an android, in its struggle to adapt to deviancy, clings to oral fixation in a desperate attempt for self-comfort. To eat is the purest form of love, after all, isn't it? (Or, rather: Connor needs something in his mouth, and he needs it there /now./)


Connor needs something in his mouth, and he needs it there _now._

That's as far as he can think; anything else winds into dead ends of data. He's tried distracting himself with case files, downloading, calibrating, anything that'll make the objective leave him alone—or no, rather, the _feeling_ (that's the kind of language Markus has been telling them to use. Connor still isn't very good at it.)

It's been like this ever since he went deviant: the random objectives—no, _feelings_ (why didn't this come as easily to him as the others?) Connor still isn't used to the idea of wanting.

That much was clear to him since he saw Hank again, for the first time. They'd stood there in the dusty city snow for a while, at first, Connor still blinking surprised from the hug he'd been pulled into. The beat of the wind was cold on his back, whistling through the desolate city—Connor had walked long through the abandoned streets, led on by the objective looming blue and quiet up ahead. Like a moon-eyed animal following a carrot on a string.

 **Objective: Find Hank.**

Now he'd been taken by the shoulder and pulled into an embrace; and when Hank pulled back and looked at him, there was a look of dry, humored wonder in his eyes.

"Shit," Hank had said. "So you're really…" He made a gesture with his hand. "Y'know."

Connor blinked. "Conscious?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Connor paused before answering. "Yes," he said finally. "That appears to be the case."

Hank scoffed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "I always knew, y'know." He lifted his chin and regarded him. "You were always too goddamn annoying to not be doin' it on purpose."

Connor gave a small smile. "I don't know what you mean."

"Aw, come on."

They both stood for a little bit longer. Hank was watching him, the amusement fading to a steady consideration, and Connor could see himself reflected in those eyes. He wondered if Hank saw a human.

Hank clapped his hand awkwardly on Connor's shoulder. "So what're you gonna do now, huh? Go back to your new…android buddies? You got an, uh…android tent city, or somethin'?"

"I will be returning to CyberLife."

After a beat of shocked silence, Hank gave him a look of disbelief. "You _what?_ Oh, hell no—"

"The company is under new management. You have nothing to worry about; I will be working with them—"

" _Fuck_ no, Connor! Are you crazy? They almost killed you!"

"While I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, deactivation is considered murder now. They couldn't do it if they wanted to."

Hank was dumbfounded for a few seconds. "And what're you going back for, anyway? What do they want from you?"

"I'll be of help with negotiations. I'm trusted by the revolution."

An analysis of Hank's body language revealed it to be uneasy. "Connor." He sighed. "I don' know how to say this, but—this shit. It won't change overnight. This android thing. Plenty of folks still think you're a machine, or somethin', especially over there."

"The revolution has proven—"

"They were tryina _kill_ you, what, a week ago? You think now they'll see the light? Hell, they might even hate you more."

"They might," Connor said slowly. His LED flowed yellow for a moment, then flushed to blue. "But I'll have my—android buddies."

"Nah." Hank was pacing now, not quickly, just turning on his heel and taking a step or two, and then a step or two back. "Nah, Connor, I don't like this. I mean, shit, do you even wanna go back there?"

The spill of yellow light into the LED, circling, circling, circling. "I think I…would be useful to them."

"That ain't what I asked. Do you _wanna_ go back?"

"It is…one of my objectives." Which is a feeling, Markus had said, not an objective—or were all objectives feelings?—or not all of them—

"One of your _objectives?"_

Now a hint of doubt was entering Hank's expression, almost as though Connor had said something strange, something that betrayed him as truly a machine. Would Hank think he was a machine? An error message—no, _panic_ was the name—flared up in Connor's processor. No, not processor: Heart. Heart. Heart. That was what Markus had told him with the most force, his arms clasped behind his back as he faced the window. _Humans have processors too, Connor. They call them minds, or hearts. No, not the anatomical heart. Heart._

 _Markus, I'm not sure I—_

 _Use the words. The rest will come later. Trust me._

"Connor? Hey!" Hank's voice brought him back to the present. "You run outta battery or what?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant. I'm here."

"Do you wanna go back to Cyberlife or not? Ain't all this—revolution thing about, I don't know, choosing things for yourself?"

Connor thought for a moment longer, his lashes lowering. "…I think…I don't trust Cyberlife. I have no attachment to them. But they need me to return, and I don't exactly have…anywhere else to go."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Connor." Hank jabbed a finger back towards his car. "Then you're comin' home with me."

"What?" Connor looked up, irked. "But Cyberlife—"

"They'll find someone else."

"They want me. They're still powerful, it wouldn't be wise not to return."

Exasperated, Hank stared at him. "I thought you said you _didn't_ want to go back!"

"I'm not sure—if I want—" Connor struggled, LED yellow. "I don't think I should, or—" Red. "I just don't know what I want, okay?!"

For a few moments, Hank looked at him, a glimmer of thought in his eye. Then, he took a step closer. "Alright, then, how about this. Do you wanna see Sumo?"

Connor recalled the memory of the Sumo, the innate trust he'd been given by the dog, the interesting fur. The chance to analyze another life-form—it was almost playful, trying to analyze an animal, when he was so used to dealing with humans. It would add to his data—no—the word was…it would be fun. So he spoke. "Yes."

"Then you know at least one thing you want, and you're comin' with me. Cyberlife can go to hell. C'mon."

So Connor had followed him to his car, and gotten in, and sat there still processing as the car drove down the empty roads. Hank turned the radio to some rock station, and the soft, static-touched sound of the radio filled the dead silence.

Connor glanced over at Hank. The comfort of trust. Yes—this had been the right decision.

After a while, Hank looked over. "Hey, Connor." That same tone as before—the flat curiosity. "Why don't you pick a station?"

Connor turned back. "Pick a station for what?"

"I don't know." Hank shrugged, hands on the steering wheel. "Pick a station you like on the radio."

That he liked? Connor didn't know what he liked. He could pick the station Hank thought was best, the station that was the most calming, the one that was most invigorating—but like was such a different thing. Still unsure of what he would do, he reached out and began to tab through the stations, pausing at each to listen. This one was classical. This one was pop. This one was country, and in that way, Connor kept flipping and flipping through the different stations, even as he could feel Hank's eyes slide to him.

Connor didn't manage to pick one all the next five minutes, at which point they arrived at the house. With a faint sense of failure, he leaned back. Why couldn't he have just chosen one—any random station?

Hank turned off the car before turning to him; there was the clink of the keys in his hand. "…" He cleared his throat. "So you, uh, androids don't like music much, or…"

"I—wasn't sure which one to choose," Connor said flatly. There were error messages coming up now, and they were making him tense, as far as androids can get tense. Overloaded.

With a nod, Hank had seemed to accept it, though Connor heard a lingering suspicion in his voice. "Alright." Then he was standing up out of the car, closing the door.

He'd watched as Hank got ready for bed, and found a place on the couch to go into stasis. There had been an offer from Hank to use the "guest" room— _Cole's room ,_ was the unsaid—but Connor had refused. The couch was fine. The couch was fine.

It was fine until he'd abruptly come out of stasis at 4:35am with a sudden cascade of error messages, and a restless energy that wouldn't go away; and that was how it had ended up in _now ,_ now as in Connor has an inexplicable, almost visceral urge to put something in his mouth, anything that he can analyze, any comfortingly mundane stream of data that he can interpret and file away—anything where he doesn't have to struggle with replacing his words with Markus' new ones, something that'll be _real_ and tangible that'll keep his processor busy—no, not processor. Mind. Heart? What was the difference between mind and heart?—

No, no, no, that settled it, he needed to analyze something _now_.

So Connor rose slowly from the couch, so quietly that even the pulse of cricket-sounds outside wasn't louder. He activated his night vision and slipped off his shoes—because he can't wake Hank, he _can't_. He remembered with stinging clarity Hank's reaction to his analysis: _Aw, Connor, you're so disgusting._ And he had felt disgusting, after that; not because of the action, but because of the reflection of himself that he could sense in Hank's mind. Disgusting. Shame.

Down the hall he crept, dimming the glow of his LED, and the new objective flickered to life up ahead. The letters were shifting strangely, betraying the numbers behind them, but the text was still clear. **Objective: Analyze.**

He found the kitchen. There, Sumo lifted his head and met his eyes in the dark.

"Shhh," Connor murmured. "Good boy." But Sumo knew something was wrong, because he gave a small whine as he padded up to Connor. With a few sniffs at him, he rounded the android suspiciously; Connor absentmindedly blocked him with his hand, already looking around for something, anything. "I'm fine, Sumo. Go back to sleep."

Sumo eyed him for a moment before giving a soft snuffle, a shake of his fur, and walking out of the kitchen with a jingle of his collar.

Now it's time. Connor didn't want to be—disgusting, not after the reaction he had gotten from Hank. He did want to be human. Humans put food in their mouths, and that wasn't disgusting.

The fridge loomed before him; Connor crossed the floor, the light-shafts from the window passing across his face in the night, and opened the fridge. Yes, this is because—he was doing this to add to his data on food. Right? Or to make sure everything in the fridge was safe, or something. The new thoughts added to his objective, but they only succeed in scrambling it further. Okay—no more thought. Just analyze.

Connor took out a bottle of ketchup first, the chill of the fridge brushing over his fingers. He put a little bit on his fingers, lifted them to his lips, and tasted.

 **Tomato concentrate from red ripe tomatoes, distilled vinegar, high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, salt, spice, onion powder—**

He almost sighed in relief at the blissful fizz of processing, the surge of familiar interfaces. Yes—this was what he needed. More, he needed more data—

 **Total Fat 0 g**

 **0%**

 **Saturated fat 0 g**

 **0%**

 **Polyunsaturated fat 0 g**

 **Monounsaturated fat 0 g**

 **Cholesterol 0 mg**

 **0%**

 **error**

 **Sodium 154 mg: 6%**

 **Potassium 54 mg: 1%**

 **Total Carbohydrate 4.5 g: 1%**

 **Dietary fiber 0.1 g: 0%**

 **Sugar 3.7 g**

 **Protein 0.2 g: 0%**

That was it? There had to be more. More he could look up—

 **The H. J. Heinz Company, or Heinz, is an American error food processing company with world headquarters in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Originally, the company was founded by Henry John Heinz in 1869 error February 14, 2013, Heinz agreed to be purchased by Berkshire Hathaway error acquire error 46,195,652 shares error error error of common—**

More more more quickly quickly—

 **Heinz Reduced error Sugar error error Tom$ 1ato Ke58tch80hup error 13 , $2.58 fr6ro09m 10+ stores error 2ra14 pr9orA9duct r%eveview &%( !(][[}0111011101101000011000010111010000100000011010010111001100100000011000010010000001101000011001010110000101110010011101000011111100001010**

It wasn't enough anymore. The relief had passed, and now everything was—worse. He kneeled down on the kitchen floor, setting the ketchup bottle on the ground beside him, and dug into the fridge until he reached a jar of jam. Restless energy filled him, and his hands were almost trembling as he unscrewed the cap and dipped a finger in, then tucked it securely into his mouth. The relief was instant, as soon as he closed his mouth around his finger, the sugary, viscous texture dissolving on his tongue. He closed his eyes and sucked for a few moments, his lashes dark on his cheeks. Data—

 **Strawberries, High fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, sugar, fruit pectin, citric acid—**

Connor didn't store the data this time. Instead, he dipped his fingers back in and pressed them against his tongue.

 **Strawberries, High fruct7se corn s2rup, corn syrup, su0ar, fruirt pecatin, citric acid—**

Again—

 **Strawberries,0ig8fruc8tose0110100001100101011000010111001001110100**

Desperate now, he set the jar back down, though with one hand he kept the lid of the jar and pressed the cool edge absentmindedly against his lips. His other hand reached back into the fridge, opening the freezer. Ice cream? That would work.

Soon, there are so many things on the floor around him, scattered in a circle around him. Bathed in the glow and hum of the fridge he kept going, lapping at his fingers, analyzing, in this strange sort of fit that's the closest he gets to being a machine, and yet, somehow, the closest he has come to being a wild animal, too. The thought occurred to him.

It was at that exact moment that the lights in the kitchen flicked on.

Connor stopped, unblinking, an apple halfway to his open mouth, to the tongue already flattened down against his bottom lip—his eyes already dulled in preparation for the stream of data. He quickly closed his mouth and turned his head to the doorway, where Hank stood wide-eyed with shock.

"Connor?!" Hank said, with a bewildered stare that soon moved down to the bottles and containers all over the floor. "Aw, jeez—Connor, what the _fuck?!"_

Sumo padded out from behind his legs, looking slightly guilty. Oh.

Hank's voice cut the awkward silence. "Connor, what the _hell_ are you doing?" His voice went high with disbelief. "Are you okay?"

"…I'm fine," Connor said. He swallowed and set the apple back down. "I was analyzing the—"

"You were analyzing _what?_ " Hank burst out. "The _fridge_?"

"I was testing the food."

"At five in the goddamn morning?! Why?!" Hank came closer, the shock fading to confusion on his face. His expression was mystified as he moved a bottle of dressing aside with his foot. "What the hell—you're _scaring_ me, Connor. Is somethin' wrong?"

Now Connor could see the worry, and it made his stomach sink, if such a thing is possible for an android. "There isn't anything wrong," he insisted. A few error messages popped up, and suddenly he was frustrated, his LED dipping red. "I just needed something to do, okay?"

By now, it was clear that Hank had realized he was out of his depth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. "I'm gonna call the—whatever. The android doctor or some shit. What the _fuck_ , Connor."

Connor felt like he wanted to disappear. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you—"

"You? You ain't got nothin' to be sorry about." He walked off for his phone. "It's probably those CyberLife fucks messing with your head. You just hang on." He unhooked the phone from the wall. "We're gonna fix you up, alright?"

Connor looked up at Hank, every nerve-wire singing with shame. He looked down.


End file.
